


Should Auld Acquaintance...

by silverfoxstole



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-20
Updated: 2005-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Invitations to the New Year ball at the Admiralty...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should Auld Acquaintance...

“A letter from Admiral Pellew, no less.”

Lieutenant Bush raised an eyebrow. “A personal letter, sir?”

“Indeed. There is an enclosure for you.” Hornblower passed a sealed slip of paper across the table, eyes still fixed on the admiral’s missive.

“For me?” There was incredulity in Bush’s tone as he took the paper. Recently he had thought, privately of course, that Admiral Pellew seemed to have taken leave of his senses – first the unprecedented granting of Christmas leave to Hotspur’s crew, and now this…admirals did not write personal letters to mere lieutenants. He broke the seal, quickly scanning the few lines written in elegant copperplate within, brows creeping further up his forehead in disbelief as he did. “Sir…sir, there must be some mistake! This invitation can’t be meant for me – the admiral has sent it to the wrong person.”

Hornblower glanced up and shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, there’s no mistake, William. We are both cordially invited to the New Year ball at the Admiralty.”

Then Pellew really had gone insane – Bush knew perfectly well that officers of his rank were never invited to such gatherings. He looked at the invitation again – it was definitely addressed to him, Lieutenant Wm Bush esq. HMS Hotspur. “Sir, it’s not my place to attend such a function,” he said, wondering what on Earth had possessed the admiral.

“Nonsense, Mr Bush! You have as much right to be there as I. And I know you are very light on you feet – no doubt you are an excellent dancer,” Hornblower said briskly.

Bush’s eyebrow flicked up again. “Only the occasional reel or jig, and even then with extreme reluctance. I have no knowledge at all of formal dances, let alone the waltz.”

“I very much doubt that there will be waltzing. We shall keep each other company – I have no aptitude for dancing whatsoever.” The captain smiled ruefully, then gave his first lieutenant a sober look. “It is not an invitation to be refused, William.”

“I realise that, sir.”

“Well, you could show a little more enthusiasm.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Bush got to his feet. “I shall, of course, be delighted to attend. If you’ll excuse me, sir – it’s time to call the afternoon watch.”

“Of course, Mr Bush – carry on.”

Bush saluted and hurried from the cabin, thinking gloomily that nothing short of sudden death would extricate him from attending the ball.

 

***

Hornblower smiled and shook his head.

I shall, of course, be delighted to attend. An expression further from delight than the one on Bush’s face as he said the words could scarcely have been imagined. Hornblower could sympathise. Bush was at home on a gun deck, amid the powder, smoke and noise - he couldn’t picture his friend in a ballroom. Balls were places for idle conversation, flirtation and, if one were skilled at such things, social advancement. None of those would hold any appeal to Bush – he was never one to speak unless he deemed it necessary, Hornblower had never seen him show an interest in any women barring his sisters (though, knowing William, he probably had a lady friend in some port whom he never mentioned), and he was quite happy enough with his lot in life not to need to curry favour with those of a different class to himself.

Hornblower shook his head. Poor Bush – the evening would be purgatory for him.

And most probably for he himself, as well – he looked at Pellew’s invitation again. Captain and Mrs Horatio Hornblower are cordially invited to attend…He groaned. Maria would no doubt be in transports. He could hear her now: “Ooh, Horry, imagine me being invited to the admiral’s ball! I feel like such a grand lady!” He considered keeping the news from her for a moment, thought of attending alone – he dismissed the idea quickly, however. It would not be fair to deny her such a treat, even though he could no more imagine Maria in a grand ballroom than Bush.

It would certainly be an…interesting evening.

 

***

Bush looked in the small battered mirror and glared at his reflection.

He had been half-hoping that he might come down with something that was, though not fatal, serious enough to warrant him missing the ball. Unfortunately, nothing had occurred – he was looking damnably healthy. He groaned and turned to William, the ship’s cat – the animal sat on the edge of the cot, licking his paws and regarding his namesake with an air of boredom.

“You are to be envied,” Bush told the cat. “All you have to do is catch a few rats and go to sleep in the sun. I have to endure a long evening of being snubbed, pitied and ignored. The admiral must have run mad.” Unsurprisingly, William did not comment.

Bush returned his attention to the mirror. Always meticulous with his appearance, he had made sure that this evening everything was as smart as it could be: queue tied with a new (and expensive) silk ribbon; shirt points starched and stock neat; new stockings (more expense, which he could ill-afford); shoes and coat buttons polished until they shone. It had been a while since he had last worn his dress uniform, and it had taken some time to launder and brush it, but he would not allow Hornblower to be embarrassed by his first lieutenant.

William jumped down from the cot and wandered over, brushing himself against Bush’s legs – Bush picked the cat up, much to the animal’s annoyance, before he could leave hair all over his immaculate stockings. “Do you not have some mice to chase?” he asked – William yawned in reply. For the last week he had been frequenting Bush’s cabin, strolling in without so much as a by your leave and going to sleep on the cot. Several times when Bush had returned to his cabin after a long watch he had been forced to remove the cat before he could turn in himself.

There was a knock at the door. “Mr Bush?”

Bush put the cat down on the desk. “Come in!”

Styles pushed open the door, knuckling his forehead. “Sorry t’ disturb you, sir, but I wondered if you were ‘ungry.” He proffered a plate bearing some unappetising-looking blackened slabs.

Bush stared at them. “Styles, what the devil is that?”

“I were fryin’ the last o’ the Christmas cake, sir – thought you might like a bit.”

“It’s an offence to try to poison a senior officer, Styles, you should know that,” Bush snapped. “Get back to your duties and be grateful I don’t have you flogged.”

Styles’s battered face fell. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He slunk out of the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him.

Bush groaned, and looked at William. “This is a nightmare.”

 

***

“’E’s in a right bad mood, and no mistake,” Styles told Matthews as he emerged onto the deck, plate still in his hand. “’E ain’t lookin’ forward to this do.”

“Can’t say I blame ‘im,” the bos’n said with a sigh. “Don’t sound like much fun.”

“I dunno – bet the food’s good.”

Matthews noticed the contents of the plate. “Anythin’ would be better than that – Styles, you’ve never been fryin’ the Christmas cake!”

Styles sniffed. “I were makin’ use o’ the leftovers. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Styles, I thought I told you to get back to work,” barked Bush from behind. The lieutenant had come through the hatchway without either of them noticing.

“Sorry, sir – I were just goin’ - ”

“Make sure that the galley is spotless and the stove is leaded before I get back, or I will have you flogged, and that’s a promise. Do you understand?” There was a cold light in Bush’s eyes, the blue unusually icy.

Styles looked at his feet. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“The boat’s ready to take you ashore, sir,” said Matthews quickly before Styles could attract any more of Bush’s wrath. The lieutenant was looking rather pale, and for once it had nothing to do with Styles’s cooking. Matthews knew a nervous man when he saw one.

Bush nodded. “Thank you, Matthews. Mr Orrock!”

The tall, gangly Irishman hurried for’ ad. “Sir!”

“I leave the ship in your hands, Mr Orrock.”

Orrock saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“It’ll take me hours t’ black lead the stove,” Styles moaned as he and Matthews watched Bush rowed ashore. The lieutenant sat stiffly in the stern of the jollyboat, looking more like a man going to his execution than to a party.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, mate,” Matthews said, “’T were the nerves talkin’. Mr Bush might be a lot o’ things, but he ain’t unfair.”

Styles boggled at him. “Mr Bush is scared o’ goin’ to a dance? I don’t believe it!”

Matthews shrugged. “Well, it’ll be full o’ toffs, won’t it? The cap’n can mix with those sort o’ people, but I ain’t so sure about Mr Bush – he’s more like one o’ us.”

“Matty, Mr Bush ain’t nothin’ like us. ‘E’s an officer.”

“And you think officers don’t get nervous, do yer?”

“But Mr Bush ain’t scared o’ nothin’! I’ve seen ‘im, in the middle o’ a battle - ”

Matthews shook his head. “We’re all scared o’ somethin’, Styles. Even Mr Bush.”

 

***

“Well, Horry? How do I look?”

Hornblower looked up from the Naval Chronicle to see Maria standing in the doorway. It was evident he would not get away without making a comment, as she was watching him expectantly, her mother hovering in the passage behind her. “You look very well, my dear,” he said automatically, and she smiled, pleased.

“It was difficult to make a new gown at such short notice,” she said, twitching a fold of her skirt back into place, “The only drapers who could provide the fabric I wanted was rather expensive, but since this is such a special occasion I thought it wouldn’t matter just this once.”

“My purse is a little light at present, Maria,” Hornblower told her, running an eye properly over the gown. It was high waisted - a style which, though fashionable, did not suit Maria’s rather sturdy figure - in pale pink muslin. The colour was an unfortunate choice, accentuating her ruddy cheeks. A lace fichu modestly filled the low neckline, and she had pinned up her hair, decorating it with artificial flowers.

“Oh, Horry, there is enough. Ten shillings a yard is - ”

“Good God! Ten shillings?” Hornblower tried to detect evidence that the fabric had cost such an exorbitant amount, but could find none.

“Would you have me look like a dowd in front of all those admirals and their fine ladies?” Maria demanded, her eyes shining with tears. “I did not want to embarrass you, Horry!”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said quickly, patting her hand rather ineffectually. He could feel Mrs Mason’s eyes on his back. “You look very fine, my love.”

Maria gulped and sniffed, fumbling for her handkerchief. “I’ve never been to a ball, you see, I just wanted to look my best for you.”

“And so you do.” Hornblower awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her forehead. She looked up at him with a rather watery smile and brushed some imaginary dust from his uniform coat.

“I do so like your gold lace, Horry. Such a shame you do not wear it more often.”

“It would make me a rather obvious target for the French if I did, my dear.” Hornblower was relieved by the knock at the door, which deflected Maria’s attention from him. As she hurried off to answer it, he turned, and could see Mrs Mason watching him carefully.

“You make sure you look after her,” she said, eyes narrowed. “She’s gone to a lot of trouble for you.”

Fortunately, he was spared the necessity of replying by the arrival of Lieutenant Bush, whom Maria had just shepherded into the hall. Bush was still wearing the expression of a man bound for the gallows, Hornblower noted with a little amusement.

“Good evening, Mr Bush,” he said, “I trust everything is well with the Hotspur?”

“Everything was in order when I left, sir. Good evening, Mrs Hornblower, Ma’am,” Bush added, with a wary glance in Mrs Mason’s direction. She, however, smiled indulgently at him.

“You are fortunate, Maria, to have such a fine officer to escort you,” she remarked, giving Bush a very long look up and down and making him colour uncomfortably. It was true that the ever-meticulous Bush had made a particular effort with his appearance this evening – Hornblower, always acutely aware of his own shortcomings, could not help but wish he had as good a leg for a stocking as his lieutenant.

“Two fine officers, mother,” Maria corrected her.

Mrs Mason spared a glance for her son-in-law, and sniffed. “I suppose so.”

“Perhaps we should be on our way,” Hornblower announced, finding Maria’s cloak and helping her into it.

“Now, you be careful,” Mrs Mason said, hovering behind once more, “And make sure he dances with you. I know what these men are like, once they get into the card room – you won’t see him again all evening.”

“I can promise you, ma’am, I will not abandon my own wife,” Hornblower informed her shortly.

Mrs Mason just sniffed again, disbelievingly, and disappeared into the depths of the house.

 

***

The walk to the Admiralty was not a long one, for which Bush was thankful.

Maria chattered, her excitement evident to anyone – Hornblower walked at her side, her arm held awkwardly through his, smiling slightly and attempting to make a pretence of listening to her. Bush inwardly sighed and shook his head – Maria’s adoration was still obvious, but how long would it be before she noticed the distance that was palpable between them? He had made no secret of his own views on Hornblower’s marriage, though he had unfailingly supported his friend through what he still believed to be a rushed and unwise arrangement. How would Maria fare among the admirals’ and captains’ wives this evening? She had made an effort, certainly, but she would never be more than the plain, simple girl she so obviously was. Bush’s heart went out to her – at least he was aware of what to expect.

The Admiralty was a blaze of light, a line of carriages drawing up at the door. Neither Bush nor Hornblower had been able to justify the expense of a cab to cover such a short distance – one of the footmen gave them a disdainful glance as they trooped up the steps. Another had his nose held very deliberately in the air as he took Maria’s cloak and directed them towards the ballroom, taking in Hornblower’s single epaulette and Bush’s lack of gold lace.

“Oh, Horry,” Maria said, clinging to his arm and looking around her with wide eyes, “Isn’t it grand? You could house ten families in the lobby alone!”

A morose individual announced them as they entered the ballroom. On hearing Hornblower’s name, it was mere seconds before Admiral Pellew detached himself from a group of high-ranking guests and approached, an attractive woman Bush guessed to be his wife at his side, exclaiming, “Ah, Hornblower! Welcome, man, welcome!”

“Good evening, sir. Ma’am.” Hornblower was smiling himself now, perfectly at home among his superiors. Bush reflected that he had probably beaten most of them at whist at the Long Rooms at one time or another.

“And your good lady wife, too. I am very pleased to see you, Mrs Hornblower,” said Pellew, bending over Maria’s hand.

Blushing furiously, she dropped a brief shy curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

Pellew noticed Bush and nodded. “Mr Bush.”

Bush made his bow, but was already forgotten as the admiral drew Hornblower further into the room, talking animatedly.

“There are some people I wish you to meet – they are very eager to make your acquaintance.” Pellew turned to Maria. “My wife will take good care of you, Mrs Hornblower – I promise to return him swiftly to your side.”

Maria looked rather overwhelmed as Lady Pellew smiled and led her away, leaving Bush alone. The morose individual gave him a pitying glance as he announced the next arrivals – Bush shot him a glare and procured himself a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He was damned if he would have these high in the instep servants feeling sorry for him – he was quite used to keeping his own company.

His mind turned longingly to thoughts of a convivial evening on Hotspur – even dicing with Styles’s deep-fried Christmas cake suddenly seemed attractive. He tired to ignore them, and wandered off around the perimeter of the room, trying not to look as though he had been abandoned.

 

***

 

The evening turned out to be everything Bush had known it would.

The press of people and the multitude of candles made the ballroom uncomfortably hot and stuffy, especially since the windows were firmly shut to guard against the dangers of the night air, a precaution Bush – who regularly stood the night watch – knew to be ridiculous.

Few people had spoken to him all evening. Hornblower had been ushered by Pellew into the card room – it seemed unlikely that poor Maria would get her dance with her husband, though the experience would not have been entirely romantic, given Horatio’s inability to appreciate music. Feeling sorry for her, Bush had come close to asking her to dance himself, despite his usual reluctance, but he could not catch sight of her in the crush.

A couple of young women, giggling behind their fans, had approached Bush. He had smiled, and mumbled, embarrassed by the attention, and they soon wandered away, uninterested, when they discovered him to be a mere lieutenant. He sighed - he knew he had no talent for small talk. Accepting another glass of champagne, he resigned himself to standing on the sidelines. He didn’t belong here – however kindly meant the invitation, he fervently wished Pellew had not sent it. Being ignored in such a manner would have been infinitely preferable to being treated as though he were invisible.

“Mr Bush?”

So caught up was he in his reverie that the voice addressing him by name startled him. He glanced up – a tall, elegant figure in a red coat stood before him. The lean, good-looking face with its air of superciliousness was unmistakable, as were the dark eyes archly looking him up and down. The left jacket sleeve had not been empty and pinned across the chest when Bush had last seen its owner, however.

“Major Côtard,” Bush said, his heart sinking. Now what? Being ignored he could cope with, but he really wasn’t in the mood for French taunts.

“I thought it was you,” the major said, smiling and turning to the pretty blonde woman on his arm, “This, ma chère, is the man I was telling you about. You are well, I trust, Mr Bush?” As always, he pronounced it ‘Meestaire Boosh’.

“Well enough, thank you,” Bush replied warily. He and Côtard had got off on the wrong foot, mainly due to the major’s arrogance and initial insistence on treating Bush as a servant– things had rapidly gone down hill from there. Having to share a berth didn’t help, either. Côtard had constantly made little comments and jibes at Bush’s expense, knowing Bush didn’t speak French – he would have given a year’s pay to know what the major had been saying about him. “Yourself?”

Côtard gestured to his empty sleeve and shrugged. “As you see - a souvenir from our encounter with Monsieur Wolfe. I ‘eard you shot him - is that true?”

Bush nodded, ignoring the voice in his head that whispered ‘eventually...’

“My congratulations, Lieutenant. At least one threat to our respective countries has been eliminated. ‘Ow is Capitan ‘Ornblower?”

“He is well – married now.”

“Ah, that does not surprise me.” Côtard smiled. “Allow me to present my own wife, Théresé.”

Madame Côtard extended a slim white hand, dimpling up at Bush. “Monsieur Bush.”

“Ma’am.” She was an exceptionally attractive woman - Bush’s sense of gallantry, usually of little use to him, rose to the fore. He bent over the hand, raising it to his lips.

Côtard watched him, amused. “You are not married, Bush?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Only to the Navy, major.”

“A shame. It is a state I can ‘eartily recommend. I am sure Capitan ‘Ornblower would agree.”

I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Bush thought, finally catching a glimpse of Maria, sitting beside Lady Pellew and fanning herself vigorously. The difference between her and Madame Côtard could not be more pronounced. For a moment, she glanced in Bush’s direction, though she evidently did not notice him – though seen only briefly, he didn’t miss the lost look in her eyes.

***

“Some time will have to pass, certainly, but I have hopes that it will in time fade from memory enough for…justice to prevail. Are you listening to me, Hornblower?”

Horatio jumped – he had barely heard a word Pellew was saying. Where the devil had Bush got to? There had been no sign of him for hours. Though at first it had been an honour to be feted and congratulated, now he was wishing he had someone to share it with. He had not been alone on Hotspur when they aided the destruction of the French invasion fleet. Even the sight of Bush’s ironically raised eyebrow would have been something, but the man seemed to have effaced himself so completely as to disappear.

Where was he?

***

“Lieutenant Bush, isn’t it?”

The voice at his elbow made him jump. He had not been spoken to since Côtard had been called away, more than an hour since. Bush turned to see a rather corpulent man in the uniform of a flag captain standing behind him. “Sir?” He was sure he’d never seen the man before.

“Collins.” The man smiled. “I was in Kingston, on the board of enquiry.” A subtle way to put it, but it wouldn’t do to mention the words ‘court-martial’ here.

“Oh.” Bush was unsure how to react, faced with one of the men who had been deciding his fate while he lay in a state of constant worry in the prison hospital. For the past two years, the events on Renown had barely been mentioned, once the newspapers tired of the story. The truth was always lurking, though – Bush was constantly aware, when thinking of his career and possible promotion, that there was a black mark against his name, that he had once been accused of mutiny. Though he knew the action had been unavoidable, mitigating circumstances were never taken into account in the Navy.

“A bad business, though you and your juniors acquitted yourselves impressively at Samana Bay. Very impressively, if I may say so.”

Bush blinked, surprised. “Thank you, sir.”

Collins shook his head. “As I said, a bad business.”

“Indeed, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but we were placed in an untenable position.”

“So you were. Between ourselves, had Captain Hammond not been on the board, events might have transpired differently. He was determined to see someone hang for it, whatever the truth. It was unfortunate, considering later events…”

Later events, oh yes. Black Charlie Hammond turning out to be a traitor all along, deserving of the noose himself. To think that such a man should have sat in judgement over them…Bush fought down the anger he still felt. “Indeed, sir,” he said again.

Collins regarded him carefully. “You probably spent more time with Mr Kennedy than anyone in those last days, did you not?”

Bush couldn’t help wondering where Collins was leading the conversation. “I suppose so, sir. We talked – there was little else we could do. Neither of us was going anywhere.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “Sir – I firmly believe that Mr Kennedy did not push Captain Sawyer into the hold.”

Collins fixed him with a beady eye. “Then who did, Mr Bush?”

“I cannot answer that, sir, I was not there. I can only trust my instincts.”

“Hmm.” Collins nodded. “You understand that Captain Sawyer’s name had to be preserved? There is a way of doing things in the Navy – someone had to shoulder the blame.”

Bush understood all right – it would have been too easy just to accept that Sawyer had overbalanced, as that would have meant admitting that the man had been mentally unstable and unfit for command. It would have meant vindicating the ‘mutiny’ instigated by the four lieutenants – unthinkable. “And what of Archie Kennedy’s name, sir?” While in the eyes of the world Sawyer died a hero, Kennedy lay in an unmarked communal grave in Kingston, a convicted criminal who had been fortunate enough to expire from his wounds before the hangman could come for him.

Collins raised a shaggy black eyebrow. “Patience, Mr Bush. In time, memories fade, and injustice can be corrected. I hope that your memory may be relied upon if that time comes.”

“Sir, I - ” Bush’s head was spinning, whether from the obtuse nature of the conversation or the heat and champagne he couldn’t tell. He needed some air. Surely Collins couldn’t be suggesting…

“We all must have patience, Mr Bush,” the captain said. “All things come to those who wait.” And then he was gone, swallowed up in the crowd.

Bush shook his head. He really needed air. Putting down his glass on a nearby table, he hurried from the ballroom.

***

“A most successful action, Mr Hornblower. I congratulate you. And to take out that devil Bonaparte’s commandant – excellent work.”

“I regret I cannot take responsibility for that, sir – my first lieutenant, William Bush, fired the first shot.” Hornblower reached for a fresh glass – the elderly commodore had been talking at great length, and there could be no escape.

“Ah, yes – Sir Edward has been telling me. I had been led to believe that he would be here this evening.”

“He is here, sir – perhaps I should look for him - ”

“No hurry, no hurry. I’m sure he’ll turn up. In the meantime, you can tell me exactly what happened. Every detail.”

Hornblower gulped down half the champagne. Damn Bush! Where on Earth was he hiding?

 

***

 

There was a small drawing room further down the corridor.

Deserted and in darkness, it was chilly, but a relief from the oppression of the ballroom. Bush knew he would never understand the vagaries of the aristocracy – the more of a crush a function was, the greater success it was considered to be. He was quite happy with a small family party at home, or to be in good company with a few friends. To be jammed into a room with hundreds of people he had never met before seemed another kind of hell – he would far rather be under fire on the gun deck.

He lit a candle, and leaned upon the mantelshelf, resting his forehead against the cool marble. The past seemed to be returning to haunt him this evening. First Côtard, then Collins…what exactly had the man been driving at? Kennedy had been condemned, there was nothing to be done now. Unless he were granted a posthumous pardon, his good name restored…but that was impossible, surely? Collins’s final words echoed in the darkness of the room: All things come to those who wait…

Bush shook his head. He should have stayed on Hotspur – at least he would have been welcome there, invited to join the modest but lively celebrations of the turning of the year. The company of Matthews and Styles and the others was infinitely preferable to that in which he found himself at present. Styles…Bush recalled his parting words to the man and groaned. He knew he could be hard, but he prided himself on being fair, and he had not been fair to Styles. If this was the result of a little privilege, he wanted no more of it.

There was a creak of hinges behind him – he raised his head to see the chink of light from the hallway growing larger as the door slowly opened. Eventually it opened fully, and a rather dumpy figure stood silhouetted on the threshold.

“Oh!” it exclaimed in surprise upon seeing Bush. “I am sorry – I though no one was here! I just wanted to escape from that dreadful crush for a moment.”

Bush couldn’t help smiling on recognising Maria. “As did I, Mrs Hornblower. Please, don’t leave on my account.”

“Oh, Mr Bush.” She sounded relieved. “I’m glad it’s you.” She came properly into the room and sank down on a sofa, fan fluttering. “It is a dreadful crush, isn’t it? I don’t know how they stand it, the gentry. How can they talk to anyone? You have to shout to make yourself heard, and it’s so hot...!”

“I suppose they become used to it.”

“I suppose they do. I don’t think I could, though.”

“Are you not enjoying your evening, Mrs Hornblower?” Bush could tell the answer before he even asked the question. The lost look had not left Maria’s flushed face.

She attempted a smile. “Oh, it’s been…” Her face crumpled. “No, not entirely. Have you seen Horry? He hasn’t been near me since we arrived. Lady Pellew is nice enough, but…well, she doesn’t normally keep company with the likes of me.” She looked at her hands, now folded in her lap, gripping the handle of her fan tightly. “Why should she, a grand lady like that?”

Bush sat down beside her. He had seen his sisters upset enough times to recognise a woman close to tears but trying her best to hide it. Damn Hornblower! He had married the girl – the least he could do was to show her some attention. And it was obvious to Bush that Maria was feeling as out of place as he was himself. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

She glanced up at him. “But it does! This is Horry’s world – I must do my best to fit in with it. I tried so hard, but…” She gulped. “I could see them, whispering behind their fans, wondering what I’m doing here. I felt like such a fool!”

“It’s they who are the fools, Mrs Hornblower.” It was one thing for him to be slighted, he was used to it by now, but it was quite another to make Maria feel worthless. Hornblower should have been at his wife’s side, not left her to the mercy of sneering and judgemental females. Bush could imagine what his sister Sally would have to say on the subject.

“Oh, please, call me Maria. You don’t need to stand on ceremony with me,” she said with a sniff. “I suppose Horry had to go with the admiral, didn’t he?”

“He has no excuse for abandoning you all evening,” Bush told her firmly. “I shall make sure he knows it, too.”

Maria smiled at him. “You are very kind, Mr Bush- has anyone ever told you that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt if many of the men who have served under me would agree with you.”

“I find that very hard to believe. You have a good heart.”

The remark took him by surprise - Bush felt himself colour up to the roots of his hair. “Thank you,” he mumbled, acutely embarrassed. He suddenly found the buttons on his cuff the most interesting things in the world.

Maria smiled again, her tears gone. “I think you need a wife, Mr Bush.”

“You are the second person to tell me that this evening, Mrs – Maria. I’m beginning to worry that there is some kind of conspiracy to marry me off.”

“Oh, you need have no worries on that score. I can handle my mother.”

For a moment the comment hung in the air between them, before they both burst out laughing. Bush shook his head, thinking of Mrs Mason’s determined advances at Hornblower’s wedding. “She is very…persistent.”

“She is, at that. Have you never wished to be married, Mr Bush?”

“The Navy is all I need. I have my sisters - they give me quite enough trouble, I assure you.”

Maria gave him a long glance, an odd look on her face. It was difficult to make out in the candlelight. She nodded slightly. “For now, perhaps.”

Bush opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but just at that moment the clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. They listened as the chimes died away. “Twelve o’clock. Happy New Year, Maria.” He stood, offering his arm. “May I escort you back to the ballroom to find your errant husband?”

“Yes, Mr Bush, you may. Though I hope you will not scold him too badly – it was the admiral’s fault, after all. You may scold the admiral for me.”

The thought of delivering a scold to Pellew was so ludicrous that Bush laughed again. “Believe me, ma’am, I wouldn’t dare. I’ve no desire to lose my commission.”

***

“Well, someone must have seen her! She knows no one – she cannot have gone far - ”

“Calm down, man – I expect she’s gone outside for some air,” Pellew said, clapping Hornblower on the shoulder. “Damnably close in here. I could do with some myself. You there!” he shouted at a lingering footman, who jumped. “Open the windows – a bit of night air won’t harm anyone!”

“I should have stayed with her – she has never attended a function like this before.” Hornblower scanned the room desperately – when he had last seen Maria she had been quite happily talking to Susannah Pellew and some other ladies, a little overwhelmed at being in such august company. A little of his guilt at leaving her had been assuaged by knowing that she was enjoying herself.

“My fault entirely, my boy – I’ve been monopolising too much of your time. Of course your duty is to your wife.”

“Oh, I don’t regret it, sir – thank you. I am gratified to know that the events which transpired in Kingston may not be set in stone.”

Pellew nodded. “It may take some time, but I hope to see things put right in the end.” He glanced around the room. “There has been no sign of Mr Bush all evening – I was hoping he might join us for a drink. You have a very able man there, Hornblower.”

“I know, sir, and I am grateful for it. Unfortunately, Mr Bush finds these functions something of a trial.” Hornblower couldn’t help smiling slightly, remembering Bush’s reaction to the invitation.

“Really? All the more reason for that drink, then. You are both to be congratulated for your part in the scuppering of Boney’s invasion plans, which was why I invited the pair of you here.” The admiral spotted something over Hornblower’s shoulder. “Ah, Mr Bush! We thought you might have run out on us, man. And look, he’s found your wife for you, too, Mr Hornblower.”

Hornblower turned to see Bush coming through the throng towards them, Maria on his arm. “Maria! I was worried about you, my dear.”

“It’s quite all right, Horry –Mr Bush took me outside. It was so terribly hot in here.”

“There you are, Hornblower, not only an excellent right hand but he attends to the comfort of mislaid spouses too,” said Pellew with a twinkle in his eye. “Will you drink to the New Year with us, Mr Bush?”

“Thank you, sir.” Bush looked a little dumbfounded at the admiral’s off-hand compliment, but swiftly recovered his composure.

Pellew beckoned to a passing waiter. Once he had made sure that everyone had a drink, he raised his glass. “To health, happiness and prosperity. And further spokes in the wheels of Boney’s plans,” he declared. “Happy New Year!” He turned to Maria. “Well now, Mrs Hornblower, I would be honoured if you would consent to a dance. What do you say?”

Momentarily stunned, Maria flushed and bobbed a startled curtsey. “Of course, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, Hornblower, I won’t run off with her,” Pellew said with a wink, and led Maria off into the set that was forming.

Bush watched them go, a strange expression on his face.

“I hope you’re not coveting my wife, William,” Hornblower said good-naturedly.

“I was just thinking. Have you heard about - ”

“About Archie? Yes, Pellew told me. It will take years, but at least something will be done.” Hornblower turned to his friend. “William, where the devil have you been hiding all evening? I hoped you might come and share my penance – I have been trapped in the card room with some of the most crushing bores in the service.”

“Some might say that was one of the drawbacks of your rank, sir.”

“With thoughts like that, Mr Bush, you will never become a captain.” Hornblower’s tone was teasing. “Come along – what will it take for you to enjoy this party?”

Bush considered, examining the champagne in his glass. “Something much stronger than this,” he said. “I apologise, Horatio – I had assumed my presence was not required.”

Hornblower looked around for a waiter. “And I have had commodores and admirals wanting to meet you! You have too little opinion of your own worth, William. Never doubt your right to be here - the admiral invited us both, equally. And I cannot think of anyone else I would rather have at my side to welcome the New Year.”

Bush arched an eyebrow. “With the exception of your wife?” He paused, and added quietly, “Maria also believed her presence to be unwanted.”

“Unwanted? I – I could not find her, she - ”

“You left her alone all evening, Horatio. I can shift for myself, but her…it’s not fair. You know it’s not. You married her - ”

“For better or for worse, yes, I know.” Hornblower sighed. “You’re right, William. I should have paid more attention to her. I shall make a resolution now – to be a better husband from now on.”

Bush looked sceptical, but he made no comment.

Relieved, Hornblower finally spotted a waiter. “You there! Bring us some brandy – and be quick about it!” He turned to Bush. “We are here to celebrate – I suggest that we make an earnest attempt to drink Portsmouth dry. Are we agreed?”

“Horatio, the admirals!” Bush protested. “And what will Maria say?”

“My wife is quite happy for the moment. I will endure her scolds tomorrow. Are we agreed, Mr Bush?”

Bush stared at him, as though weighing something up in his mind. As usual, his expression was inscrutable. After a long moment, he smiled and shook his head, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Aye, aye, sir.”

 

***

It was some time in the early hours of the morning that the jollyboat hooked up to Hotspur’s chains and a rather unsteady figure made its way through the entry port.

Acknowledging the night watch, the figure descended the steps, only slipping once. The door to the galley stood open, light from a lamp spilling out onto the deck. Inside, Styles, liberally covered with black lead, was still hard at work on the stove.

“Styles.”

The big man glanced up, recognising the sharp tone – the shadowy figure in the doorway resolved itself into that of Lieutenant Bush. Despite the fact that his jacket was unbuttoned and his hat set at a rather rakish angle, there was a familiar stern expression on Bush’s face.

“I thought I said I wanted that stove leaded by the time I returned?” he demanded.

“Aye, sir. Well, it were like this, sir – “ Styles began, only to stop, disconcerted, when Bush’s stern mask suddenly cracked and he began to laugh. “Sir?”

“It doesn’t matter, Styles. Leave it.”

“But, sir - ” It was evident by now that Bush had been drinking, and more than a little from the sound of it. Styles grinned. “Good party, was it, sir?”

“Tolerable, Styles, tolerable. Oh, by the way…” Bush reached into his pocket and withdrew a bottle. He threw it to Styles, who, startled, caught it more by reflex than intent.

He unstoppered the bottle, sniffing the contents – it was brandy, and good brandy, too. “I don’t understand, sir - ”

“Don’t drink it all at once. I expect to see you in the morning with a clear head. And,” Bush fixed him with a sharp look “if you offer me any of that Christmas cake again you’ll be cleaning the stove with your tongue, understood?”

Still staring in astonishment at the bottle, Styles knuckled his forehead. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Bush nodded, and withdrew, wobbling only slightly. As he made his way across the deck, Styles could hear him singing:

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…”

 

The End


End file.
